The Hartwell Center was the clinic you read about in magazines, the one whose director, Dr.

Phoebe Hartwell, had treated actresses and professional athletes and the wives of senators — a place so far beyond the modest specialists Julian had taken me to that I could not imagine what I was doing walking into it in yesterday’s clothes.

And then the receptionist looked up, saw the man beside me, and said, warmly, “Good morning, General Reed.”

I turned so fast I hurt my neck.

Arthur sighed, the sigh of a man whose cover has been blown a fraction earlier than he intended.

“Retired,” he said, to the receptionist and to me at once.